


Full-Fledged

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Birthday Sex, Domestic, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Living Together, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pets, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-22 05:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Hayato wakes up to someone pouncing on him." Hayato wakes up earlier on his birthday than he intended and makes the most of the unexpected opportunity this presents.





	Full-Fledged

Hayato wakes up to someone pouncing on him.

“ _Ah_ ,” he shouts, the volume of his exclamation partially caught by the stifling effect on his voice of being half-asleep and the rest of it muffled by the angle of his face being pressed straight down against his pillow. “ _Get off me_.” He reaches up over his shoulder, trying to get a hold on furry ears before Uri gets his claws properly lodged in Hayato’s shoulder and makes extricating him a far worse prospect than it already is; but his groping fingers run up against hair instead of fur, his hand touches at warm skin instead of a soft body, and while Hayato is still fumbling for comprehension there’s the burble of a laugh, and the press of a nose against the back of his ear, and:

“‘Morning,” Takeshi says, sounding simultaneously chipper and lovestruck at once, the way he always does first thing in the morning. Hayato groans into his pillow and presses his hand against the side of Takeshi’s face to offer some half-hearted attempt at resistance while he tries to decide whether to be more irritated or infatuated by the other’s presence. The attempt at dislodging the other is precisely as effective as it ever is -- not even slightly, namely -- as Takeshi ducks his head to soften the effort of Hayato’s clumsy shove into fingers ruffling through his hair, as if he’s adopting Jirou’s tendency to beg for affection along with his already alarming similarities to the ostensible weapon that has become a regular addition to their household. “Guess what.”

“No,” Hayato tells him without lifting his head. “Go away.”

“It’s morning,” Takeshi says, ducking in to press the words against the back of Hayato’s neck along with the warmth of a kiss. The damp of his mouth catches at Hayato’s hair, his nose tangles in the sleep-rumpled strands, but Hayato just grunts into the pillow without making any attempt to drag away from Takeshi’s overt affection. He tells himself it’s because he knows it’s a losing battle and for no other reason than that. “You know what that means.”

“It’s not morning if I’m not awake,” Hayato says. His face is still pressed down to his pillow so Takeshi can’t see him, but he squeezes his eyes shut tighter just to make a point. “I’m still asleep.”

“You should wake up,” Takeshi tells him, his cheer utterly unfazed by Hayato’s attempts to avert it. He shifts his weight against Hayato’s back until he’s pinning the other down under the warm press of his body; Hayato grumbles into the pillow, keeping his head turned down so Takeshi won’t see the tension of maybe-a-smile at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a very special day!”

“It is not,” Hayato tells his pillow. “It’s not even day yet. Isn’t the sun still down?”

Takeshi’s laugh is dawn-brilliant against his shoulder. “No, the sun rose an hour ago!” He shifts against Hayato’s back like he’s getting comfortable, folding his arms across the other’s shoulders so he can brace his chin against his hands. “It was coming up over the horizon while I was finishing my morning run. You should have seen it, it was really pretty!”

“I almost did,” Hayato complains. “I’ve only been asleep for a few hours, just let me sleep in. It’s my birthday, shouldn’t that count for  _something_?”

“It does!” Takeshi agrees, with that cheerful tone that always sounds deceptively submissive and yet always proves to be built around a core of stubbornness. “If you wake up I’ll give you your first present!”

“I don’t want it,” Hayato says. “Go away, baseball idiot, let me sleep.”

“Aww,” Takeshi says, sounding more delighted than he has any right to, given Hayato’s unequivocal rejection. “Come on.” He ducks in to kiss against the back of Hayato’s neck again, lingering this time over the weight of his lips on the other’s skin like he’s savoring the warmth of it. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

“So you say,” Hayato grumbles. “It’s going to be something stupid like a baseball glove so you can make me play your dumb game with you.”

Takeshi’s laugh tugs a smile at the corner of Hayato’s mouth in spite of his best efforts to remain  scowlingly grumpy. It’s always a struggle to stay frustrated with Takeshi, and one Hayato has the gnawing sense he’s losing his knack for with every passing year. “That was for  _my_  birthday,” he says with complete self-assurance. “You had a good time then too, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” Hayato says, because it’s an easier answer to give than to try to deny this very true fact. He turns his head against the pillow enough that he can huff to blow the loose fall of his hair away from his mouth and can cut his gaze up at Takeshi in the closest thing to a glare he can manage. “Fine then. Where’s my damn present?”

“You’ll like it,” Takeshi says, which isn’t an answer at all; but he’s giving the words to the back of Hayato’s neck, against the knob of bone at the top of the other’s spine, and Hayato is having some trouble paying attention to maintaining the upper hand in the conversation when Takeshi’s mouth is pressing close against his skin and sending little frissons of electricity down his spine with every brush of contact. He shudders as Takeshi’s lips skim between his shoulderblades, his whole body trembling in spite of himself with the force of the reaction; he can feel Takeshi’s smile curve against his skin. “I promise you will.”

“You say that every time,” Hayato says, because Takeshi  _does_  make this promise every time, never mind that Hayato has never been able to prove him wrong. Hayato lifts his hand and pushes his fingers roughly through his hair to urge it back and off his face, huffing hard like voicing the appearance of frustration will be enough to unravel the slow-knotting tension starting to form low in his stomach with every drag of Takeshi’s lips on his skin. “That doesn’t mean it’s worth waking up for.”

“It will be,” Takeshi says, his voice dropping into that low, sultry range that still startles Hayato in spite of all his years of experience, that still shudders heat straight down his spine like Takeshi has made a live wire of the sound. Takeshi shifts in closer and presses his mouth against Hayato’s spine like he’s fitting the print of his lips there. “I promise,” he says, and then his teeth catch against Hayato’s skin, the edge of them dragging to scrape just over the knob of the other’s spine, and Hayato gasps an inhale as the whole of his body goes hot at once, as his back arches and his toes curl with the surge of sensation that rushes through him. Takeshi laughs against his skin, sounding warm and self-satisfied with Hayato’s reaction, but Hayato doesn’t pause to complain about that; he’s too busy shoving up from the bed, bracing his hand flat against the mattress so he can push upright and topple Takeshi right off him and onto the sheets. Takeshi goes without resistance, laughing delight that crinkles at the corners of his eyes and bubbles in his throat, but Hayato doesn’t wait to growl at this any more than he pauses to give voice to his half-hearted complaints. He’s too busy moving, reaching out to grab at Takeshi’s shoulder and shove him down hard to the mattress, bracing him still as if Takeshi is showing the least resistance while Hayato swings his knee up and over to straddle Takeshi’s thigh beneath him.

“ _You_ ,” he says, with something like his old teenage frustration on his tone, and then he’s reaching out to fist his fingers into Takeshi’s hair, to pull the other’s head up and back to make a surrender of his throat. Takeshi goes without any resistance, with only a huff of an exhale as much satisfaction as surprise, but Hayato doesn’t pause to linger over the picture Takeshi is letting Hayato make of him; he has to lean in at once, has to duck in close to press his mouth against the part of the other’s lips and catch the sound of that smile against his tongue. Takeshi’s lashes flutter, his throat works on a groan of satisfaction, and Hayato eases his hold, loosening his grip to dig his fingers in far against the soft of Takeshi’s hair like he’s bracing himself in place even as Takeshi’s hands come up to settle carefully against Hayato’s hips and his fingers fit in against the curve of Hayato’s bottom ribs. It’s easy to lose himself like that, to let the give of Takeshi’s mouth and the heat of his skin chase away Hayato’s lingering exhaustion, and his put-upon frustration, and even his awareness of their surroundings, until by the time he draws back to pant for air they might as well be in a hotel room in Italy as in their bed at home, for all he knows or cares. Takeshi has gone pliant beneath him, all the steel-hard lines of his well-trained body curving to soft surrender just for the touch of Hayato’s fingers; the awareness of that power makes Hayato growl in the back of his throat, a noise of heat as much self-satisfaction as frustration, this time.

“Takeshi,” he says, drawing the syllables into a length that could be a threat to someone else, that just makes Takeshi’s lashes flutter with understanding of the heat the sound is in truth. “Where’s my damn present?”

Hayato can hear the effort on Takeshi’s voice on he swallows, can watch the motion shift in his throat. “Here,” he says, and lets his hands slide away from Hayato’s waist to fall wrist-up on the sheets instead. Takeshi’s lashes dip, his gaze slides over Hayato’s face; his lips curve up at the corner, catching a smile as effortlessly as if it were waiting in the air for him. “It’s me.”

Hayato narrows his eyes. “Hmm,” he says, pursing his lips into a show of consideration as he tips his weight back, as he shakes his hair out of his face so he can look down at Takeshi beneath him. There’s not much to obstruct his view; Takeshi’s given over the weight of jeans for the sprawling length of his legs, and Hayato suspects his shirt to be tossed aside somewhere in the living room. The only thing he’s still wearing is a pair of dark blue briefs Hayato remembers buying for him some years ago, over Takeshi’s laughing protests that they’re less comfortable than boxers while Hayato told him that sometimes clothing is less about comfort than it is about appearance. Hayato hadn’t even thought he was listening, had thought his words had gone entirely unheard; with the thin elastic of the dark fabric clinging to the lean flex of Takeshi’s thighs and the deep lines of muscle at his hips, Hayato has never been happier to be proven wrong.

“You’ve done a better job of wrapping than usual,” he sniffs, aiming for judgment on his tone even as he lets his hand slide out of Takeshi’s hair and down the curve of the other’s neck so he can run an idle finger down the center of that tanned chest, so he can watch the way Takeshi’s breath catches and his spine arches to lift and meet Hayato’s fingertip. Hayato dips his lashes and lets his gaze wander down to follow his touch; by the time he’s pressing his fingers against the waistband of the briefs Takeshi is visibly hard against the fabric, his cock curving up to strain against the taut press of the elastic. Hayato thinks about teasing him, about lifting his fingers away just as Takeshi’s hips come up to meet him; but he can hear the rush of Takeshi’s breathing catching on anticipation, and besides it’s his birthday, and he feels like being indulgent. He presses down instead, curling his palm in and around the heat of Takeshi’s cock through his underwear, and looks up through his lashes to watch the way Takeshi’s head goes back, to see the way the other’s shoulders arch against the sheets in helpless response to the grinding weight of Hayato’s palm against him.

“It looks nice, I guess,” Hayato says, speaking clearly so Takeshi will pay attention to him over the sound of his own gasping inhales, over the deliberate distraction Hayato is offering with his palm. “What am I supposed to  _do_  with it?”

Takeshi huffs an exhale, the sound tugging into the edge of a laugh even with his head angled back against the pillows. “Anything,” he says, and lifts his chin enough to meet Hayato’s focused gaze, to smile hazy heat at the other past the flush on his cheeks. “Whatever you want.”

“Anything I want,” Hayato repeats, savouring the sweet weight of the words on his tongue, feeling the way they twist and curl into place against the back of his teeth. He drags his palm down over Takeshi’s cock again, stroking over the other through the thin layer of fabric between them; and then he lifts his hand and brings it around to smack lightly against the other’s hip. “Turn over, I want to see the rest of my present.”

Takeshi moves at once, so quickly Hayato almost loses his balance and sends them both toppling off the bed; he hisses and has to clutch at the headboard to save himself, but Takeshi barely notices enough to offer a breathless “Sorry!” before he’s shifting back in and over the sheets to spread out over his stomach instead of his back. Hayato might complain, in other circumstances, might muster a growl or a huff of frustration at the very least; but at the moment he has the whole of Takeshi spread out in front of him, with nothing but the clinging dark of his briefs to cover the smooth tan of his skin, and he has far better things to do with his time than complain.

“Mm,” he hums instead, letting the tension of that brief adrenaline turn the sound into a purr in the back of his throat as he rocks back to consider Takeshi before him. His hands fit in against the inside of Takeshi’s knees, his fingers spread out to skim against the inside of the other’s thighs; he can see the way Takeshi trembles with the contact, can feel the pull and strain of the other’s muscles as he lets his knees slide open over the bed to make an overt invitation of his position. Hayato lets his hands keep moving, digging his thumbs in against the backs of Takeshi’s thighs to feel the way the other huffs an exhale of pleasure before coming up to weight his palms against the curve of Takeshi’s ass before him, perfectly outlined by the elastic of the briefs clinging to the other’s body. Takeshi’s hips buck up to meet him, his body flexing and arching in answer to the suggestion of Hayato’s hands; Hayato slides his palms up once and then back down, pressing hard to feel the way Takeshi gives way to his touch, to hear the huff of air at the other’s lips as his shoulders flex with unvoiced heat. He’s just digging his fingers in to squeeze against the other when Takeshi takes a breath and turns his head to give himself space enough to speak. “Is it a good present, Hayato?”

Hayato makes a low sound in the back of his throat, acknowledgment without surrender. “It’s not bad so far,” he admits, and lets his thumbs slide down to the cleft of Takeshi’s ass, pressing suggestion against the other’s entrance as he goes. “I’ll need to give it a try to see if it’s worth all this trouble.”

“Oh,” Takeshi gasps, sounding breathless and incoherent in that way that always makes Hayato’s cock twitch hotter in spite of himself. “ _Please_.”

“Mm.” Hayato braces his knees against the bed, steadying himself before leaning in and over Takeshi beneath him, to weight the upward flex of Takeshi’s hips with the force of his own body. Takeshi groans as Hayato grinds in against him, as Hayato fits the outline of his cock inside his own briefs against the curve of the other’s ass and rocks forward to outline innuendo between the thin layers of the clothing keeping them apart; the sound makes Hayato’s mouth curve on a smile and brings his hand out and bracing over Takeshi’s shoulder so he can lean in and towards the curve of the other’s neck.

“Takeshi,” he says, purring the other’s name into suggestion all by itself, and he sets his free hand against the other’s hip, digging his fingers in against the warmth of Takeshi’s skin to hold the other steady while Hayato rocks forward to grind against him. Takeshi tenses with the friction, his whole body curving like a wave cresting to meet Hayato over him, and Hayato can feel his own breathing coming faster, can feel the warm pleasure of anticipation coalescing into something tighter, more demanding, appreciation laced with a demand for more, and soon. He rocks against Takeshi once more, drawing the motion so long he’s grinding against the base of the other’s spine before he pulls back; and then he lets his hold on Takeshi’s hip go, and leans out and sideways so he can reach for the drawer in the bedside table. Takeshi turns his head to watch, his eyes half-lidded to dark and his lips parted on the breathless heat of his inhales, but he doesn’t protest, as Hayato knew he wouldn’t, and by the time Hayato is rocking back over his knees with the bottle of lube in his hands Takeshi is lifting his hands from the sheets and down to catch his thumbs under the elastic of his briefs. Hayato hisses at the movement and reaches out to smack against Takeshi’s wrist, and even that is only enough to pause the other’s action, not to undo it. “ _Stop_.”

Takeshi turns his head, looking back over his shoulder to blink heat-hazed confusion at Hayato behind him. “Huh?”

“Leave them on,” Hayato says, turning his attention back to the bottle in his hands.

Takeshi lets his hands slide away and back to the sheets under him, but the motion is hesitant, his forehead is still creased on confusion. “Don’t you need me to take them off?”

“That’s not what I’m going to do with you,” Hayato says without looking up from the bottle in his hands. He works the lid open to spill slick wet across one palm, frowning attention at what he’s doing while he doesn’t meet Takeshi’s wondering gaze. “You shouldn’t jump to conclusions, you know.”

“But you’re--”

“It’s  _my_  birthday,” Hayato says, with as much haughty self-assurance as he can bring to bear on the statement. When he lifts his chin to meet Takeshi’s gaze it’s with a deliberate toss of his head, with a tilt to the motion so he can look down his nose at the other. “ _I_  get to decide what I do with my present.”

Takeshi’s lashes dip on interest, his lips part on heat. The expression alone is as good as surrender even before he ducks his head in understanding and lets himself relax back down over the sheets. “Okay.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Hayato tells him, still with that put-upon dominance. “You just stay there for a minute.” He closes the lid of the bottle and tosses it aside over the soft of the sheets where he can track it down later; right now he’s more interested in his immediate goal, which is catching the thumb of his free hand under the waistband of his own briefs to urge them off his hips and down his thighs. He’s hard before he’s even touched himself, his body warm with the possibilities of Takeshi in front of him and his breathing coming fast on the assumed power of his present position; his grip on himself is easy, his stroke smooth with the certainty of the moment, with the knowledge that he won’t be interrupted in what he’s doing. Takeshi has tipped his head back again, is watching Hayato’s hand work over himself with his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark; Hayato wonders if Takeshi knows that his shoulders are flexing with adopted strain, if he’s aware of the involuntary clenching of his fingers against the bedsheets beneath him as he watches Hayato slick wet over himself. It doesn’t matter if it’s conscious or otherwise, anyway; either possibility is enough to flex Hayato’s thighs with building heat, enough to lift his chin onto haughty confidence and slow his strokes to draw out the action, to pull Takeshi’s gaze into greater depths of heat with every pass he takes. Takeshi presses his lips together, swallows with visible effort; and Hayato lets himself go, sliding his grip up and off himself so he can reach down and push his briefs off his thighs and over his knees.

“Bring your legs together,” he orders as he rocks back to sit on the bed alongside Takeshi just long enough to pull the elastic down and free of his feet. Takeshi obeys at once, drawing his legs in to press together from ankle to knee to thigh, and Hayato catches at the edge of the undershirt he wears to bed to tug it up and over his head, casting it aside to be forgotten along with the weight of his clothes. That leaves him stripped to skin, the whole of his body left on display for Takeshi’s sideeye attention; but Hayato doesn’t wait to give the other a chance to stare this time. He comes in instead, sliding over the bed so he can straddle Takeshi’s legs, can brace his knees just against the lean muscle of the other’s calves before he reaches out to balance himself alongside Takeshi’s chest, to spread his fingers wide over the sheets to hold himself steady. He reaches for the flushed heat of his cock, bracing himself with a steady grip against the base as he lowers his weight down against Takeshi underneath him, ducking his chin so he can watch the way their bodies fit together until he’s sliding in and against the heat of Takeshi’s thighs, the slick of his cock pressing to fit between the angle of the other’s legs. Takeshi makes a sound underneath him, something soft and hot against the weight of the pillow; but Hayato doesn’t look up, just keeps his head ducked down so he can watch himself pressing between Takeshi’s thighs, can watch the slick-smooth motion draw over his length as he lets his grip go and reaches to press his palm flat against the outside of Takeshi’s leg instead.

“Like that,” he says, an order and approval at once; and then he rocks his hips forward, slow, drawing out the motion of fucking down and against the inside of Takeshi’s thighs beneath him. It’s a different movement than usual, more down than forward, and the sensation is entirely novel; but Hayato can feel Takeshi trembling like this, can feel the shudder of heat running through the other and flexing against the muscles of Takeshi’s thighs, and there’s a deep satisfaction to that, to feeling himself sliding in against the heat of the other’s skin while Takeshi tenses and shakes with building arousal.

“Yes,” Hayato says, purring again without thinking of the sound, this time; and he lets himself lower, lets the sprawl of the other’s body beneath his catch and hold his weight. His mouth fits against Takeshi’s spine, his lips press against the raise of vertebrae just under the skin, and Takeshi curves up into it, his breath spilling from him against the pillow as his legs tense and tremble under Hayato’s weight. Hayato lingers there for a moment, feeling Takeshi shaking under him as if Hayato’s lips are electric, as if his blood is coming alight with the heat of the other’s touch; and then he lets his hand slide from Takeshi’s hip and dip down, following that deep crease between well-defined muscle to slip his fingertips just under the elastic of the other’s waistband. Takeshi jerks with the touch, Hayato can feel the flat of his stomach twitch with the contact; but Hayato just growls a low note of satisfaction and pushes down lower, fitting his slick fingers in under the stretch of Takeshi’s clothing so he can reach for the stiff curve of the other’s cock pressing down against the resistance of the bed beneath them. Takeshi shudders with the contact, his entire body quivering as Hayato’s fingertips brush and slide down the curve of him, and Hayato presses in against Takeshi’s spine, shutting his eyes and breathing in against the heat of the other’s skin as he dips his hand down farther, as he curls his fingers in and under to cup the weight of Takeshi’s balls against his grip.

“Takeshi,” he purrs, soothing and encouraging at once, and he slides back up, trailing his fingers over the other in a long slide that has Takeshi gasping under him, that has Takeshi’s hips jolting forward in a futile attempt to rock in against Hayato’s grip. The motion flexes in his thighs and tightens Takeshi’s legs around the slick heat of Hayato’s cock sliding between them, and Hayato groans a short, cut-off note of satisfaction and curls his hand in around Takeshi’s length, bracing his grip in place as he presses his knee against the other’s calf, as he tips to urge Takeshi sideways from the support of the mattress. Takeshi moves obediently, letting Hayato pull him without any resistance at all but what gravity makes for him, and then Hayato’s hip is pressing to the sheets, the bed taking his weight enough to let Takeshi turn half-onto his side, and Hayato can hook his foot in and around Takeshi’s ankle to pin the other’s legs close together, to hold the tension of Takeshi’s thighs tight as he rocks forward to fuck in against the strain. It gives him more room to move his hand, too; the elastic of the briefs gives him plenty of space to act, to shift his hand up and over Takeshi without having to bother with stripping the fabric off or even down the other’s hips. It’s enough just as they are, with Hayato’s grip fisting against Takeshi’s length and Hayato’s cock sliding smooth between Takeshi’s thighs, and Hayato presses in against the dip of the other’s shoulderblades and breathes heat into his lungs as he keeps pulling up over Takeshi, the long, languid strokes that always make the other tremble like he’s coming apart, like he’s going to fall to pieces right where he lies just for the friction of Hayato’s touch. Hayato can feel the flex of reaction in Takeshi’s body against him, can feel the reflexive, helpless strain in the other’s thighs as Takeshi’s hips buck forward to chase down the pressure of Hayato’s grip; and Hayato keeps moving, stroking over Takeshi at the same time he rolls his hips forward in pursuit of his own satisfaction, until their breathing is catching together like each is urging the other faster. Takeshi makes a low, desperate noise, something hot and pleading as his head tips back, as his throat opens up; and Hayato curves in closer, ducking his head to press his forehead to Takeshi’s shoulder as he tightens his grip and twists his wrist to stroke harder. The motion makes Takeshi’s legs flex, makes his thighs strain and press the tighter around Hayato’s cock, and Hayato gasps against Takeshi’s shoulder as he feels the slow burn of heat rising in the depths of his stomach, a long fuse crackling itself alight with the promise of inevitability.

“Takeshi,” Hayato says, tasting the shape of the other’s name on his tongue, rolling the syllables long and drawling with familiarity; Takeshi just whimpers, too lost in himself to muster speech, but that’s hardly a problem, not when even the sound of his incoherence alone is enough to stir Hayato to greater heat. Hayato braces his free hand at Takeshi’s hip, digging his fingers in to hold the other steady, and when he shifts his weight it’s to tip in against the other, to rock Takeshi down against the mattress so he can bring the full force of his weight to the task of pinning Takeshi’s trembling thighs together. Takeshi is panting, now, gasping for air like he’s sprinting, like he’s far more winded by this than by any of the increasingly athletic pursuits he’s adopted over the years, and Hayato keeps working over him, his shoulder straining with intent as his body rocks forward in the easy, instinctive rhythm the heat in his veins spurs him to. Reflex is guiding his motion, bucking his hips in to slide his cock between the tight flex of Takeshi’s thighs, and his grip is intent as he fists his fingers hard against the other’s length and strokes up with ever-increasing speed, giving Takeshi more friction, more force, more pressure as the other’s breathing cracks into a full-throated groan, as the skidding heights of his inhales give way to notes of raw want from all the way down in the depths of his chest. Hayato’s forehead is pinned to Takeshi’s shoulder, his motion is going frantic; and at his lips there’s encouragement, words spilling from him with as much incoherence as Takeshi’s moans carry, “Fuck” and “Yes” and “ _Takeshi_ ,” language spilling to idiocy as desire takes over his lips. But Takeshi is still shaking, still panting and gasping and thrumming with desire; and then Hayato jerks hard over him, and Takeshi’s whole body flexes tight, and Hayato hisses “ _Yes_ ,” pleasure spilling past the set of his jaw as if the feel of Takeshi’s orgasm is as good as his own. Takeshi’s spine arches, his fingers curl against the sheets; and then he jerks, all that tension giving way like a rubber band let go, and Hayato groans hot enough for them both as Takeshi’s cock twitches and spills all over his hand and the tangled sheets under them. Takeshi’s gasping, trembling and panting and radiant with heat as he comes under Hayato, and Hayato can feel it all, can feel it in the spill of wet over his grip and the tremor in Takeshi’s shoulders and the straining quiver of his thighs still tight against Hayato’s length and--

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hayato says, startled in himself by the surge of heat in him, and he’s coming at once, pulsing wet heat against the inside of Takeshi’s thighs and over golden-tan skin as his mouth comes open at Takeshi’s shoulder and his breathing spills from him with helpless force. His hand flexes at the other’s hip, his fingers clutching to steady himself even as his stroking rhythm over Takeshi’s length fails to his own distraction, and he can feel all the strain in him ease, can feel his irritation and tension and effort all together washed away by the waves of pleasure that crest and break over him with each shudder of sensation.

Takeshi is still breathing hard when Hayato comes back to himself, still lying slack across the bed like he’s not intending on moving again for the rest of the day. Hayato’s the one who stirs himself to movement, who extricates himself from the radiance of Takeshi against him so he can roll over onto his back and stare up at the blank of the ceiling. It takes him long minutes of blinking up at the white before he can collect himself enough to move, even with the increasing discomfort of his sweat-sticky skin to urge him to it, and then even when he does push himself up onto his elbow Takeshi makes a sound of protest and turns over, reaching out to throw an arm over Hayato’s chest.

“Don’t get up yet,” he suggests. When he ducks his head to nuzzle against Hayato’s shoulder his hair catches and tickles at the other’s jawline. “Stay in bed for a little longer.”

“Get off me,” Hayato says without any sincerity to the words. “You’re the one who wanted me to get up in the first place.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, sounding utterly unabashed at his complete about-face as he twists in to lie atop Hayato and get a leg up to pin him to the bed. “I wanted you to wake up. You’re awake now.”

“Awake and sticky,” Hayato tells him. “Which is your fault too, you know.”

Takeshi laughs into his shoulder, sounding significantly more self-satisfied than apologetic. “Yeah.”

“It’s my birthday, you know,” Hayato says, tipping his head so his face presses in against the soft of Takeshi’s hair. “Which means I get to do whatever I want.”

“Yep,” Takeshi agrees without lifting his head or moving his arm. “Anything you want.”

“I want to take a shower,” Hayato says without so much as turning his head. “Does that count?”

“Sure,” Takeshi agrees, with his usual sunshine-bright cheer only very slightly muffled into Hayato’s shoulder. Hayato can feel the other’s inhale gust warm over his skin, can feel the tug of a smile drawing up at Takeshi’s mouth against him. “You can take a shower anytime you want.”

“Good,” Hayato says. “I will then.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Hayato says; and he doesn’t move, even though Takeshi’s arm over his chest is a slack weight he could easily lift up and push off. Takeshi stays where he is, breathing warm and slow against Hayato’s shoulder; after a moment Hayato tugs his arm free of the other’s weight, grumbling incoherence as he wrestles his hand loose so he can loop his arm up and around Takeshi’s shoulders and let his hand weight against the dip of the other’s back. Takeshi nuzzles in closer, humming under his breath, and Hayato turns his head to breathe in against the dark soft of the other’s hair against his lips.

Hayato is still overheated, a fact which is only made more pressing when Uri nudges the door open and comes sauntering up onto the bed to curl up to sleep on Hayato’s pillow, against the sweat-damp tangle of his hair; but Hayato doesn’t protest that either, and by the time Jirou comes in to huff himself into a heap atop both their legs Hayato is more resigned to his fate than struggling against it.

He’s pretty sure Takeshi knows he’s smiling, even without being able to see his face, but Hayato is old enough now to not particularly mind that idea.


End file.
